


Stick To It

by JiMoriartea



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: And I don't mean that guy, Avocados at Law, Blindness, Gen, Headcanon, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Homelessness, I mean Matt's actual walking canes, My OC is a badass woman and noone can tell me otherwise, Older Characters, POV Outsider, THROWS HIS WHITE CANE INTO A RANDOM DUMPSTER, This is what I personally call "The stick problem", What are you doing Matt, siriusly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22308904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JiMoriartea/pseuds/JiMoriartea
Summary: This is what happens to the canes Matt Murdock leaves all over Hell's Kitchen when he decides there'saN EmErGEnCy going onand just ditches his $10.24 walking stick into the nearest dumpster.(Really, Matt? Inthiseconomy?)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 67





	Stick To It

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [with a secret like that](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16824391) by [spacenarwhal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal). 



> My brain decided that the best way to prepare for an Important Exam is to spend several hours writing a crazy oneshot about Matt's sticks.  
> ...I can't say there were many objections on my side - the brain made a compelling argument, after all.

Valerie never knew what to do with them. 

No, that’s a lie. She knew _exactly_ what to do with them. She just didn’t particularly _want_ to do it. “Eh, so what,” she’d say if asked, “the blind folk in Hell’s Kitchen go through their sticks like old Gary through flophouses, what’s new.” She’d scoff and talk about the weather instead, distract the person with her last traces of Britishness - and no, Brett, we’re not getting into that conversation again - and that would be it.

That is if someone (other than Brett) would actually ask.

But no one did on the morning she had fished out the first white cane from underneath one of the filthy dumpsters behind McDonald’s (and if _she_ calls it filthy it’s saying something). And then nobody asked when she found the next one. And the next one. And then when she couldn’t fit them all into her rucksack anymore and had to stop carrying them around altogether. So no, nobody ever asked where she’d hid them. It was only as well - they wouldn’t be able to take them, anyway. Not from _there._

A startled student glares at her before the evening crowd swallows him again as she muffles a sudden coughing fit. Right. She shouldn’t laugh that hard. Not at her own thoughts, anyway - at least that’s what the social worker said when they discussed her current shelter situation.

No, she muses and ducks into an alleyway on her left, nobody would _dare_ to go search that place.

Crap. She really shouldn’t laugh this much.

But, really. What was there not to laugh at? Back when she came here, it was all dreadful jobs and tons of cheap dye to cover her ginger hair. She’d been just trying to shake off the cops and, when she didn’t succeed, shake off the bad memories from her prolonged jail sleepover. Oh, how the times have changed.

For one, she has stopped dyeing her hair. After the Clinton Mission Shelter became her home, she got her hands on some old, discarded sewing machine and started mending clothes. It wasn't much but she became quite popular with the poor. It paid the expenses if nothing else. Helped the shelter. Gave her something to concentrate on when nothing else helped. After the terrible Murdock accident happened (and she had _been there, she saw it_ on her way from another failed job interview), the press went crazy. For a while. Then things calmed a bit, though. For years afterwards, Hell’s Kitchen went on. It wasn’t _good,_ not really. Her life went on, somehow, dull as dishwater and tasting the same. Her health had been gradually worsening, too. But it wasn’t bad, either, and who was she to complain? So when she started finding white walking canes in random dumpsters from time to time, nobody could blame her for enjoying this new, interesting development a little bit too much.

Since the first white cane, a lot of time has passed and there’s been bombings and fellows in black climbing the walls at night and then fellas in red latex doing the same and mafia bosses bleeding out on the streets so she supposes her little collection can’t really compete with that. Even though she’s gathered quite a nice one, she thinks. Amy would have been impressed.

For instance, there’s a stick with the initials _M.M.M._ carved into the handle and a smiley face hidden underneath it, so small you’d easily miss it at first (and even second) glance. And even though the handle carvings are barely legible, smoothed out with use, the smiley face still has sharp edges if you brush it just the right way.

“Hey, Val! Still haven’t given up on that religious bullshit?” A man calls to her when she’s nearing the crosswalks on the 42nd. 

Sighing, she throws a tired “Get stuffed, Lou” his way, knowing that’s the end of it. At this point, it could be almost called their Sunday tradition. Smirking, she stops for a moment to catch her breath. He didn’t notice she’s early today. Wanker.

A shabby pigeon takes to following her, his tiny feet smearing the pavement with mud. As her steps carry her closer to her destination, she returns to her thoughts. It’s almost as if the owner didn’t even know about the mark. Otherwise, he’d probably get rid of it. He seems that type of guy - it’s the same with the other cane. The one she’d found recently behind some dance club. There is a small avocado sticker on it, just above the rubber end. It’s got to have been there for quite some time judging by the mouldy strap which she’d gotten rid of as soon as she found a knife she didn’t mind blunting. The sticker is half damaged by rain and dirt, part of it peeling off but still. An _avocado sticker._ She’d dye her grey hair ginger again if it meant learning the story behind it.

...There’s nothing like osteoarthritis to make one’s evening better, she muses and leans on a nearby bench for support. The bell at St Patrick’s starts ringing somewhere far behind her, its voice making her smile as it carries through the sounds of sirens and shouting and the honking of cars. The evening mass had just ended. Shame. She’ll miss her people-watching.

If the owner wanted the sticker there, he’d probably put it somewhere else, somewhere he’d be able to feel it. Like on the top of the handle. Or on the cane’s front like with the one she’d - god knows why - given Brett. That one had red nail polish on it, right at the front. Sadly, it had almost all rubbed off by the time she rescued it from the mess of rubbish near Josie’s and so there was no telling what the picture used to be.

Most of the canes are bare, though. Sometimes with the handles cracked here and there, probably because _somebody_ gripped them too hard or something - now she _has_ to chuckle because, really, it’s too funny not to - but otherwise, they all are the same brand of ten-dollars-worth-Walmart-bought “Folding White Cane Walking Sticks”. She collects them anyway. Well, apart from the seriously damaged ones. She’s seen the force with which they can hit random walls before falling into one dumpster or another, their owner just running away as though Hell’s Kitchen’s on fire or something. Those, she simply leaves there.

Apart from her, the evening streets seem to be deserted. Even her pigeon companion has flown away, finally understanding the absence of snacks in her wrinkled hands. After a few more minutes of walking in silence (or what counts as silence in the streets of Hell’s Kitchen), she finally reaches her destination - a small place with a tree and a few benches near a parking lot. It’s almost dark but her sight is still good enough to find a dark silhouette leaning on one of them.

There’s no rush in her steps as she shuffles towards it, minding her joints’ protests against the long walk. “Sergeant”, she greets the man and watches him turn to her.

A tired smile stretches his dark cheeks. “Valerie.”

For a few minutes, no one speaks. They’re both soaking up the evening atmosphere, looking across the parking lot at the grey, grey apartment buildings and the deep blue sky behind. A dog barks somewhere to their left and a group of guys in tracksuits runs across the parking lot, swearing and shouting “bro” at each other.

“So,” Valerie starts because otherwise they’ll just both get lost in thought again. “What made you request the pleasure of my company?”

It has the desired effect and Brett Mahoney laughs out loud, relaxing further against the bench’s armrest. “There’s no way you’ll ever make me believe you’re English and you know it.”

“You haven’t read my birth certificate,” she points out.

“No, but I can”

Huffing, she replies: “You won’t. You’re too good a cop for that.”

A self-deprecating chuckle. “Yeah.” 

“Plus,” Valerie tilts her head to take a better look at him, “Your mum believes it.” When Brett only sighs in response, she pushes on: “How is she, anyway?”

“Fine, thanks. Gotta get her to stop smoking or she’ll burn the house someday.”

“Tell me about it.” The tree leaves behind their backs rustle as a cold breeze swishes through them. Valerie wraps her shabby coat tighter around her middle. “So. I take it you’re not meeting me here to give me my cane back, am I right?”

“No way,” he laughs again. “That one made me 10 bucks. I’m not giving it back into your old, senile hands!”

“Need I remind you it was my old, senile hands you should thank for finding it in the first place, young man?” she quirks one brow, amused.

“Young man now, am I?”

“And will be as long as I’m here.”

He sighs. “Valerie…”

“Yes, I know. The shelter on the corner of what’s-the-name has a place for me. You told me last time.”

“Then why didn’t ya go there?”

“I told you, it’s-”

“Too far,” he cuts in, throwing hands into the air with frustration. “I know! _Shit_ , the walking sticks won’t miss you, Val!” At her scoff, he continues in a calmer voice: “…Why do you even do it?”

“Everybody needs a weird hobby, sergeant. Mine’s collecting sticks and yours helping people and do you see me asking about _your_ reasons?” 

“Look, I-”

“ _I am old_ , Brett. Humour me, would you?”

“Val…”

“Your Lost and Found get emptied regularly. What’s the harm in keeping the canes somewhere else, safe from all you gambling cops?”

“Not sure the owner would care.”

“He wouldn’t". Smiling, Valerie tilts her head. "Not that his opinion matters.” A spike of pain shoots from her knee, making her wince and limp around Brett to the bench seat.

“You gotta take care of yourself more,” his worried gaze follows her slow, careful movements.

She ignores him. “You wanted to see me. Why?”

“I don’t even know. To make sure things are alright? Ask if you’ve seen anything shady going on?” At her scoff, he smirks. “To get the avocado one?”

The wrinkles near her eyes deepen with amusement. “Please. As if I’d give you _that one._ No, you know as well as I do that one day, it will have its special place in a museum or something.”

“But it won’t get there if it gets stolen, right?”

“Now you’re just offending my hiding capabilities,” she swats at his arm in mock-outrage. “As if he’d let someone dig around anywhere near his garbage.”

A small, mischievous smile stretches his lips and he turns to her, speaking in a low voice: “And if I told you the story?” 

“Brett Mahoney, _do you_ _know something?”_

He pauses. Then, head shaking, he changes his mind. “Not really.”

“Thought so. The devil always listens, right?” she says with an expression indicating she doesn’t mind at all.

Brett heaves a sigh, his gaze on the points of his black shoes. Then, chuckling into his chest, he turns his attention back to the dark horizon. “Speak of the devil...”

Valerie’s eyes search the roofs for a moment before Brett's finger points to one of the buildings on their right. “Ah, yes...” A distant figure is running from its roof to another and then jumps onto some fire escape, hiding from their sight. ”You know,” she says, thoughtful. “I always wondered how can he tell his clothes are the right colour.”

Brett’s answering grin is all she was aiming for. “That, dear Valerie, we’ll never know.” 

Relaxing against the bench rest, she joins him gazing at the night city. At the flickering lights from the windows, going on and out again, each of them indicating a human life. All the people living in Hell’s Kitchen, each of them under the watch of one man. “...Same way we’ll never know where he stores all the damn canes.”

“That, too” Brett Mahoney’s laugh carries over the dark parking lot and she thinks he should do it more often. There are never enough moments for joy, she’s come to realise. 

So… the thing is, she _knows_ what she should do with them. She could give them to the police together with all the unbelievable stories that go with it. She just doesn’t particularly want to.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) So. What do you think? Is there going to be a museum dedicated to Matt, with all of his rescued canes proudly displayed behind glass?
> 
> 2) I take no credit for how great Valerie is, I got her all from Amy Winehouse's song "Valerie"
> 
> 3) Who can tell me which words are added to create the almost-devilish 66 in the wordcount will get a surprise gift in the way of finding a white walking cane in their rubbish bin :'3  
> (Edit:why is noone even trying? I'd give my _both eyes_ for such a gift!!)


End file.
